This heart is a bloody mass of flesh

in my chest

that swells, sinks, skips beats and breaks.

It cannot lead me.


It is too busy keeping this body alive to watch where I am going,

too busy being shocked into action every second or so,

busy trying to stay in rhythm.

It is dealing with enough already.


It does not need me asking it for directions,

or asking questions about what I should do next,

or who I should love.

All it knows is beating and electricity.


Not destiny

or calling,

but one rhythm, 

one purpose.


By Danai Mandebvu

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